-Dietrich Bonhoeffer
My pastor hugged me twice today. I didn't even do anything that huge. I served. In a smaller capacity than others though. But still, he sought me out. He wrapped his long arm around me in the sound booth, and later on he put his hand on mine where it was resting and pulled me to his side again.
I constantly feel like I'm doing things right when I'm at church.
I constantly feel at home.
More than once I've expressed that I don't understand myself. That my identity as a Christian is a bit in ruins. That the transitions and movements and growth that I am going through and went through in my relationship with Christ and His bride haven't been the easiest.
That I've felt lost.
Bitter.
Condemned.
Hurt.
Wrong.
But now. Now I feel at home.
If things go one way or another at the end of this year, I will be leaving. Packing a few bags and boxes and poems, and I will leave. I will go.
I thought about that the yesterday. As I dressed up with lipstick and floral scarves and carried a gold crown and small stuffed bear named "Oyl" to go surprise the little girl Mandy nannies. I thought about it. I was so comfortable in that moment. Walking up to the door with my red umbrella and enthusiastically trying to be Mary Poppins in real life. It was ridiculous.
But it was so perfect.
I've slipped into this new skin of mine so easily this last year. It was the small things that ate away at me for so long, until I finally just threw up my hands and said, fine! I'm over it! I give in. I'll be her. So easy to say that. And to be her. Finally.
To be the woman who admits to liking poetry. Who paints daily, and is willing to spend far too much money on the thinnest little brush she can find. Who makes stories that don't make sense, and she doesn't really care. Who laughs her real laugh. You know the one? Have you heard it yet? Her laugh is so alarmingly loud that her face gets red and everyone in the room turns to look but it doesn't really matter because whoever made her laugh knows that they made her laugh. The woman who has created morning rituals of tea and iced coffee. The woman who draws. Everywhere. All the time. Who leaves the house without looking at her hair some days. Who spends two dollars to send the letter that needs extra post. Who has more courage.
She has more courage than I ever did.
When I say that, I have to stop. Because now, now I'm her.
In church this morning my pastor preached about how because he's a pastor he will have a special glory in heaven. Not more glory, but it's rather like a different hue of glory. If glory comes in colors, his will be absurdly bright. That made sense to me, sitting in the back. I looked out at all the people that he has the privilege and obligation to shepherd not just every Sunday but daily, and I thought, yes, that's true. He will have a brighter glory. Because all these people here, they kind of belong to him. They're kind of his. And when he gets to heaven and he gets to see them, to see us, he'll remember. His tears. His prayers. His longsuffering. His teaching.
And that, that jut seemed so fair to me. So beautiful.
I am leaving soon.
I'll be sad to leave my church, my home.
But I'm still growing. Into a woman who will see a brighter glory because of the things she does. Who will deserve a brighter glory. And it's partly because of the side hugs a tall man gives me every Sunday.
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